


The End of The World

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Badass Mary, Friends to Lovers, Grief, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Moving On, Multi, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Sweet Sherlock, Threesome - F/F/M, bereavement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23487076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: “Mary Watson was the only life that mattered to me.”John Watson’s last words to his wife should put her heart at ease. They should allow her to move on, knowing that the man she loved loved her to the last. But in the aftermath of John’s death Mary finds herself falling in love again- Though this time with two people she never could have imagined being in a relationship with. And yet, she, Molly and Sherlock are something to each other. Something new. Something special.The question is: Will that be enough?Shermollary ftw. Based on a ficlet I posted on tumblr. Note the tags and the rating, people
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Sherlock/Molly/Mary
Comments: 25
Kudos: 28





	1. With. Your Shield Or On It

Disclaimer: this fanfiction is not written for profit and infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Suggested by, and dedicated to, the ladies of the Sherlollicon 2020 panel. 

* * *

**WITH YOUR SHIELD OR ON IT**

* * *

“Mary Morstan’s was the only life that mattered to me.” 

And John closes his eyes, his breathing turning wet and rickety. He sounds voice sounds oddly, unnaturally hollow. Mary presses her hands to his chest, trying to staunch the blood flow but it’s not working and she knows it’s not. To her left Sherlock is taking down his best friend’s shooter, screaming at her and lashing into her despite her age and gender. 

He’s so far gone, he doesn’t seem to care. 

In any other situation Mary would be pulling him away, ordering him to get his act together. Telling him to call a bloody ambulance because John doesn’t have much time. But she can’t- He’s not- Mary closes her eyes for a split second, pulls the last shredded tatters of herself together and yells at Sherlock that John needs help. He needs a hospital. 

“He’s still-?” 

“He is.” 

She presses down on his wound harder, refrains from saying what she knows. That he probably won’t last for much longer whether or not Sherlock calls for help. But still… Holmes pulls out his phone, snaps directions. Paces, hands raking through his hair. He’s crying and pretending he’s not. When he hangs up he crouches beside her, asks her what he can do but it’s too late. It’s all too late. 

_She doesn’t have the heart to tell him._

“Press here,” she says and, “take over,” she says. When he does she rises. Picks up John’s gun and walks over to Norbury. 

The older woman knows what’s coming, she can see it in her eyes. 

“I have a baby,” Mary says. “I have a life.” And she pulls the trigger. Blood spatters, the bitch who shot her husband twitches and then is still. A wreck of thing instead of a person. Mary’s felt bad about some of her past kills, has regretted or disagreed but not this one. 

Not. 

This. 

One.

For a moment her chest constricts, muscles seizing as if her heart were actually breaking, and then it’s gone. 

There’s an ice storm in her chest instead. 

She walks back over to Sherlock and he’s staring at her. “She came at you,” Mary says. Very slow. Very steady. Very sure. “She came at you and I wasn’t going to lose my other boy.” She presses a kiss to his forehead. “Do you understand?” 

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer but before he can there’s a pounding of boots- Someone must have called the police when the first shots were fired- and then there’s noise. A blur of bodies and demands and words, words, words. _Why can’t they all just shut the fuck up?_ She stands and somebody wipes the blood off her hands. Bags her clothes. Mycroft appears like Zeus from on high and after a whispered, furtive conversation with his brother sends the police away. Sends her away. 

“I’ll be in touch,” he says, in that tone that he imagines makes him sound frightening. 

Mary’s fairly certain that nothing will frighten her ever again. 

She’s driven home in a government merc, all dark windows and whisky in the minibar and leather seats. The smell of it is in her nose, it and alcohol, it and blood. She gets home and she hasn’t cried yet, she hasn’t shed a tear. She can’t. She can’t. 

If she does, she’ll never stop crying. 

Numb, heavy with tiredness, she climbs the stairs to Rosie’s room and takes her daughter out of her cot, lays with her beside her in the bed she once shared with John. She breathes in her baby smell, strokes the hair so like her father’s. She stares at her eyelashes, the tiny shells of her nails. She feels the heat and softness and smallness of her and she wishes, more than anything, that she were not on her own in this room. In this moment. She doesn’t know how she’s going to do this. She doesn’t know how this happened. 

She falls asleep and dreams of John. 

* * *

She won’t eat the next day, or the next, or the next. 

She won’t wash. She won’t sleep. She’ll nearly crack her jaw with the grinding of her teeth. 

Tomorrow Molly Hooper and Sherlock will turn up at her door and try to talk sense into her. She’ll make small talk. Let them take Rosie or a walk. She can fall apart but she has to make sure nothing happens to her baby. She has to make sure Rosie is alright- After all, _she_ never will be. 

She thinks it, over and over and over again in the following months: John was wrong. 

_Mary Watson isn’t the only life that mattered…_

_John Watson’s was._


	2. Greeks Bearing Gifts

Disclaimer: this fanfiction is not written for profit and infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Suggested by, and dedicated to, the ladies of the Sherlollicon 2020 panel.

* * *

**GREEK BEARING GIFTS**

* * *

A month passes, and she starts to wash. To eat. To sleep. 

She takes bereavement leave and thinks about what she should do. Where she should go. She’s started over before, she could again. No ties. No memories. A new name and a new face and all Rosie would ever know about her father was that he was a good, honest soldier who died before she was born. All Rosie would know about Sherlock Holmes is that he’s a genius-toff-properbrilliantdetective who’s known for helping Scotland Yard. 

She could grow up in safety.

 _Mary_ could watch her grow up in safety. 

Whenever she thinks this though, Mary finds Sherlock looking at her, blue-green eyes intent and sorrowing, and whenever that happens she shakes her head. Sighs. 

She knows she’s not going to leave Mary Watson’s life behind her. 

She has at least one of her Baker Street Boys still and she’s not willing to lose him. Not willing to let the other piece of her heart go. So she sticks around. She tries her best to keep him grounded. When he’s falling apart it’s so much easier to pretend that she’s holding it together and if that’s not keeping John’s legacy alive then she doesn’t know what is. She laughs about it sometimes, to herself. To the whisky glass in front of her. All these years and she’s finally become the sensible one. 

She says as much one day, joking, to Molly Hooper, and the pathologist looks at her with those big, doe brown eyes- _she’s so pretty_ \- and it feels like they’re looking through her. Mary likes the feeling not one jot. Molly opens her mouth to say something and rather than let her ask the words just spring out of Mary’s mouth.

“So,” she says. “What are you going to do about you and Sherlock?” 

Molly blinks, blindsided, and Mary relaxes a little. Forces her smile wider. This she can do, this is familiar. And after all, she’s not saying anything but the truth. 

“He’s interested, you know,” she says carefully. 

“Course he is.” Molly scoffs but Mary sees that tiny, gorgeous flash of hope in her eyes. 

A warmth fills her chest and she can see the way forward. 

“Well,” she drawls, “when I say interested, I should probably say barmy. As in, he’s a bit barmy about you.” This time Molly narrows her eyes, about to challenge her, and Mary dashes on with nary a pause. 

“He wants you, I’m fairly certain about that. So was John.” This last is not completely honest but she and John had danced around the subject once or twice. “You should ask him, see where it goes-“ 

“He’s not interested.” 

Molly snaps out the words, her tone hurt, and suddenly that beautiful light inside her is gone. Mary wants, so badly, to make it come back again. So she takes her hand. Looks into her eyes. It’s a long time since she’s held a woman's hand and Molly’s is lovely, strong and small in her own. “I can assure you,” she says, “he is. He’s just not sure what to do about it.” 

Molly bites her lip, some uncertainty entering her expression. After all, she _wants_ to believe what Mary is telling her and that’s half the battle in convincing a mark, Mary knows. “So you’re- You’re saying-“

“Ask him to dinner,” Mary says. “Offer to cook, tell him the date. Act like it’s only natural and you’ll see how smitten he is.” At the other woman’s raised eyebrows she shrugs. “He doesn’t know how to start, Mols,” she say. “He’s like a baby penguin trying to work out how to dive: the will is there, but not the knowhow.” As she had planned, Molly snorts in laughter. “So you don’t ask him to start things,” Mary says. “You make the start for him. Give him an excuse to say yes, to get over his fear…” 

“You think Sherlock Holmes is scared of me?” Molly crosses her arms over her chest, aghast. Mary smiles more widely. “I do,” she says. “And so did, so did-“ Her throat tightens and Christ, she didn’t want to do this, she didn’t want to tear up but suddenly John’s in her head, before her eyes, suddenly John’s gone and she can’t, she can’t-

Molly holds her. Rocks her. Hushes her until she’s calm again. She strokes her hair- _had anyone ever stroked her hair before John?_ \- and tells her that it’s going to be ok. It will all be alright. Mary knows that’s bullshit but she plays along. She doesn’t see any other choice. Eventually she calms. Rises. She tries to play it off but Molly’s eyes, those pretty brown eyes, they still see through her. They still see what she’s feeling. 

It makes her feel oddly naked. _Vulnerable_. She’s not used to that. 

She wonders if that’s what Sherlock likes so much about this woman; deep down she knows it is. 

The pathologist drops her home. Walks into the house and helps her get Rosie ready for bed. She offers to sleep on the couch, just for the night, but Mary waves her away. Tells her it’s fine. It’s all fine. 

That night, as every night, Mary dreams about John. She dreams of him laughing and looking ridiculous in a Christmas jumper. 

* * *

Three weeks later Mary hears that Sherlock and Molly had their first date, that it went well. “Turns out the penguin can dive,” that’s how Molly describes it. Her cheeks turn the most gorgeous shade of red as she does. 

Mary doesn’t know why she feels so bereft at the news but she tells herself it’s just another part of her grief. 

The soldier in her doesn’t believe it but wisely she keeps her counsel. 


	3. Sweet and Bitter In A Breath

Disclaimer: this fanfiction is not written for profit and infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Suggested by, and dedicated to, the ladies of the Sherlollicon 2020 panel. 

* * *

**SWEET AND BITTER IN A BREATH**

* * *

Sherlock asks Molly to marry him after their second date. 

Molly, sensible girl that she is, tells him to give over and stop being such a twat. It takes more than two dates to get a ring on her finger, and if Sherlock doesn’t like it, well… 

And then she’d ordered him out of the morgue. 

Her eyes are bright and laughing when she tells Mary on her night in with Rosie. 

Sherlock’s surprise when _he_ relays the storyis almost comical. In fact, it makes Mary laugh, truly laugh, for the first time in weeks when he tells her. 

He pouts, glowering down at her and inquiring what the hell is so funny? 

“So you really want to know?” Mary asks, eyes sparkling, smile curling her lip. 

They’re leaning into one another, arms crossed. Practically nose to nose (or they would be, if Mary weren’t so much shorter than him). There’s something… Something in her chest that isn’t hurt or sorrow or fear and it’s been so long since that’s happened that she’s not quite sure what to do with it. So she concentrates on Sherlock instead. On annoying him. Making him pout. Making him laugh. It had always been one of her favourite things to do, even when John was still- 

At the thought of John she flinches. Forces the feeling down. 

She can’t- won’t- fall into that hurt. That pain. She’d rather be here with Sherlock. She’d rather be here, where everything’s fine and her overgrown, awkward penguin of a friend is in need of romantic advice than thinking about her lost husband. Than wondering how she’s still walking around and talking when he is not. 

Sherlock must see her reaction though because he frowns. Halts. Stares at her for a moment. Eyes held on hers he lays his hands on her shoulders. Presses a kiss to her forehead, as she had done to him that day they lost John. She thinks he’s going to say something but he doesn’t. He just pulls her to him and tucks her crown under his chin. Wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. The smell of him, the familiarity of him, it envelopes Mary and for a moment she’s ok. For a moment all is well. For a moment she’s not a widow and John’s not dead and her life isn’t shattered apart, everything’s not broken- 

She pulls back slightly. Looks at him. His eyes are soft and blue, intense, and his body is warm against hers. 

At that thought she stiffens, shame and then guilt threading through her. 

She shouldn’t have thought that. She shouldn’t have liked _that._ She pulls away and as she does there’s a knock on the door of 221B, Molly bustling in with Rosie on her hip. (She’d taken her for a walk while her mother and Sherlock discussed a case.) Her eyes flash between Mary, and Sherlock, brow puckering into a frown. Before she can say anything though, Sherlock lifts an arm, gestures for her to join them. Understanding moves through Molly’s eyes and something else, something clear and sharp that Mary can’t quite understand. Before she can think more of it though, Molly has an arm around her and Rosie is hugging her, Sherlock and Molly’s knees. 

The little one places a kiss with a childish, sweet, “mwah!” On her uncle’s kneecap and all three of them laugh. 

“John taught her how to do that,” Mary says and it’s only when the words are out of her mouth that she realises she meant to say them. 

“Was he trying to annoy you?” Sherlock asks knowingly. 

“He bloody was.” Mary laughs at the words, snorting and huffing and yes, there’s a tightness in her chest again. That tightness she hates. For a moment she’s in front of Norbury again, covered in John’s blood. Drowning in her own sorrow. 

For a moment she’s fighting tears but though they want to fall she pushes them back. 

She disentangles herself from Sherlock and Molly, pretends not to see their shared look. “I’m going to bring Rosie home,’ she announces, starting to pack her stuff away. Picking her up and heading downstairs to her pram. 

Rosie gurgles and coos, throwing Molly and Sherlock ham-fisted, babyish kisses. 

John had taught her to do that too. 

For a moment, a bright, shining moment, Mary thinks that she’ll get her daughter into her pram. Get her home. That she’s beaten back this harrowing, awful feeling inside her for another hour. Another day. And then she looks up at Molly and Sherlock, and she’s frozen because that’s the way she first saw them together. John and Sherlock, standing on the landing of 221B. Smiling down at her as if it’s the most right thing in the world. Except now it’s Sherlock and Molly because John is gone, gone, gone, gone, gone… 

The sob comes from somewhere deep and she feels it tear through her. Her bodies curls in on itself, muscles tightening, and before she knows it she’s on the ground, curled up against the skirting board. Fists digging into her flesh and tears blinding her and she can’t even, she knows she’s frightening Rosie but she can’t, she can’t, she just can’t- 

Molly picks up Rosie and Sherlock picks up Mary. 

They carry both up the stairs. Set about soothing mother and daughter as best they can. 

Rosie bawls, frightened by her mother’s upset and bewildered by all the commotion; she quickly cries herself into an exhausted sleep and spends the rest of the night tucked up in an ancient seventies cot which Mrs. Hudson sent up months ago. Fist tucked against her chin, eyes closed, she is the spitting image of John. Mary sits between Molly and Sherlock and sobs. Sobs for her husband. Sobs for her loss. She sobs for the life she loves that she can never have again and oh but she’s never felt an agony like this before-

It’s worse than any gunshot. 

Both Molly and Sherlock hold her through it; both brown eyes and blue eyes are kind on hers as she grieves. 

  
  



	4. The Time After, The Time Before

Disclaimer: this fanfiction is not written for profit and infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Suggested by, and dedicated to, the ladies of the Sherlollicon 2020 panel. 

* * *

**THE TIME AFTER, THE TIME BEFORE**

* * *

After that day things get easier. 

Not easy, but easier.

She and Rosie end up staying at 221B for a fortnight, that first time. The next time it’s a week, then five. After that she finds herself staying a month, on and off. It becomes such a regular occurrence that she thinks maybe she ought to pay Mrs. Hudson some rent. She doesn’t mean for it to happen but, well, it’s out of her hands. (Or rather it is taken out of her hands by both Sherlock and Molly). Because, as they point out, she needs someone to help her through this, even Mary understands that. After months of running from her grief, of fearing it, that grief has found her, hunted her down, and she doesn’t know what to do about it.  _ And she hates not knowing what to do.  _ The house is lonely- empty- without John and nothing she does seems to fill it up again. She finds the silence of it unbearable. 

She tells herself she should be enough- Yells herself that her daughter should be enough. 

And yet, and yet… 

The house remains empty. A hearse rather than a home. 

Sometimes just being there makes her chest ache. 

So she finds herself at Baker Street more and more often. She finds herself tucking Rosie into her cot and sharing a bottle of red with Molly while they argue over crap telly. Finds herself drinking coffee and plotting adventures with Sherlock deep into the night. And as she does this Mary slowly realises that though the worst has come, it has also passed- Or at least it has begun to. _ Sherlock and Molly have seen to that.  _ After all her desperate escape attempts, all her trying to dodge it, the catastrophe has happened and now, oddly, she can begin to make plans for the Time After. (In fact, she can admit to herself that there  _ will be  _ a Time After, because there was a Time Before and a Time John Died and none of these things are within her purview to change or erase. 

Best she get used to it).

So slowly, slowly, she admits to herself that she needs to grieve, and slowly, slowly she admits to herself that she could do a lot worse than grieve in the bosom of Sherlock and Molly. For they take care of her. Keep an eye on her. Over the course of the next year they slowly make her intrinsic to their lives. They step up. Step in. They fill a gap in as much as they can do, allow Mary the space and the time to fall apart, knowing that her daughter will not suffer damage (well, no more than cannot be avoided with John’s loss). 

And they do it all without being asked. 

Mary is not sure what she has done to merit such kindness after the life she’s lived. 

It’s the oddest, most terrible blessing, Mary finds herself thinking sometimes. A hand at the wheel when she needs to step out. Two sets of hands holding her steady as she tries not to fall too far apart. In later years she will tell her daughter that the reason she survived, the reason The Time After wasn’t a total bloody disaster, was that she found Sherlock and Molly. She found herself again, because she found herself in who she was with them. She truly believes that. 

Of course, it’s this process of finding herself through them that causes all the trouble too. 

Oh it starts simply enough: A touch that lasts a beat too long. A glance that lingers where it should not. Mary knows that she shouldn’t do it, knows that she shouldn’t hold Molly’s hand when she’s watching telly, thumb tracing her palm. Knows that she shouldn’t gaze at Sherlock from beneath her lashes in quite  _ that _ way. They’re a couple and she’s his best friend’s widow and, well, who does something like that anyway? 

John’s barely dead a year, she tells herself: this is just a rebound. Another way to avoid your pain. Another way to not be alone. (God, she hates being alone.)

Whenever she thinks that, for some reason the look in John’s eyes the night he asked her to marry him flashes through her mind. 

But she can’t help it, how she acts with Sherlock and Molly. It seems to be instinct when she’s with them. She sees Molly and her stomach flutters, she sees Sherlock and her heart lights.  _ It’s intoxicating in a way she’s not sure she understands _ . She’s been with both men and women before, has wanted and lusted after and loved all sorts of partners, but never at the same time. Never in quite this way.  _ This is, for her, something entirely new.  _ But still, one night when they’ve ordered in and Rosie’s in bed, when they’ve had most of a bottle of wine and they’re laughing about Sherlock’s latest run-in with Anderson’s replacement, that night Mary finds herself sitting on the kitchen table, slightly drunk and kicking her legs. Singing, of all things,  _ Spice Up Your Life!  _ At the top of her lungs. Molly stumbles back into her, clumsy with drink, and Mary catches her. Halts her fall. The pathologist turns to her, still laughing, her eyes bright as she opens her mouth to say thank you but as she does Mary raises her hand. Strokes her fingers gently down the other woman’s face.

She feels Molly shiver against her fingertips. 

Those gorgeous brown eyes of hers widen, pupils dilating, and as they do Mary swoops forward. Presses a kiss to her lips. She hears a gasp, feels the heat of Molly’s lips against hers as she returns the kiss, one of those strong little hands burning at the hem of her blouse... 

And then suddenly Molly’s pulled away. Staring at her. 

She brings one hand up to her mouth to touch her lips and the enormity of what Mary has done hits her full force. 

_ You’re a married bloody woman!  _ A voice that sounds a lot like John’s yells in her head. 

She stands, panicked. Not even slightly sure what to do right now. Opening her mouth to explain, to apologise (she doesn’t want to apologise for kissing Molly but God she knows she should). Her eyes go to Sherlock, her best friend, her Baker Street boy, her last link to John and the life she’d had before all this and as she does she hears Molly call her name. Put a hand on her shoulder. Mary shakes it off, shame washing through her as she meets Sherlock’s eyes- 

“Oh God,” she says. She stumbles towards the door. “Oh God, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-“ 

“Mary, calm down.” 

She blinks at him- he’s never before used that tone of voice with her- and as she does Molly moves to stand beside her boyfriend. Wrap her arm around his waist. They exchange a glance Mary doesn’t want to read and then turn to her. A united front. A package deal. 

_ Oh God, oh God, oh God,  _ she thinks again,  **_what have I done?_ **

But then… 

Molly smiles. Extends her hand to her. When Mary instinctively takes a step back she withdraws it. Her smile dims slightly. She glances at Sherlock, perhaps needing reassurance and he shrugs. Presses a kiss to her crown. “Now’s as good a time as any,” he says and Mary can’t begin to fathom what he means. She won’t. 

He takes a step towards her. Glances back at Molly who gives him a tiny nod. He then closes the distance between he and Mary. 

He stops just outside of arm's reach and clears his throat. 

“We, um…” His voice trails off and to Mary’s every so slight horror his cheeks are pinking slightly He rakes a hand through his curls making it stand up. He looks rakish- boyish- unsure. “Molly and I have been… That is, we have been talking,” he says. The words come out clipped, uncomfortable, and Mary knows him well enough to understand how uncomfortable he is. “We are… That is, we both…” 

“You have options with us, Mary.” This comes from Molly. 

Mary blinks at her, utterly flummoxed by what she’s hearing. 

“Options?” She aks like an idiot. 

“Options,” Sherlock nods. He reaches out his hands to her and more out of habit than anything else, Mary takes them. As soon as she does that Molly comes over to join them, Sherlock letting go of one of Mary’s hands so that Molly can take his place. 

“We want you,” Molly says softly. Certainly. 

She looks at Mary in that way she does, that way that seems to peer right inside her, and the other woman gulps. Licks her lips. 

Her stomach gives the most extraordinary dip. 

“You don’t have to decide right now, or tonight,” Sherlock says softly. “We could… Any arrangement we came to would be agreed by all three of us, and nothing would be done that all three of us didn’t want.” 

Mary shakes her head, confused. “So you two are saying… what? That you want to share me? Is that what this is?” 

Something soft and bright and heartbreakingly gentle flares in Sherlock’s gaze. 

He brings Mary’s hand to his lips to kiss and Molly does the same. 

“We were rather thinking that you might share us,” he says quietly and Molly nods. Smiles. This time she presses a kiss to his hand, giving Mary a little squeeze. 

“Or not,” she tells her. “There’s no pressure really.” Again that dark-eyed, lovely gaze. “We just… We think there’s something here. Something good. 

We think it’s at least worth trying.” 

Mary opens her mouth, to agree, to tell them to get lost, to- She’s not sure but she knows she can’t do this. Not now. 

“I’m going downstairs please,” she says. “I need… I need to not be here right now…” 

Sherlock opens his mouth to disagree but Molly hushes him. Nods. “Mrs. Hudson’s in Aberdeen with her current boyfriend, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you slipping in.” 

In a beat, in a daze, Mary finds herself downstairs and inside Martha’s flat. 

Not sure what to do she just stands there. Breathing. Shaking. 

And then she does the sensible thing and opens the cupboard where Mrs. Hudson keeps her gin. 


	5. Ghost Story

Disclaimer: this fanfiction is not written for profit and infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Suggested by, and dedicated to, the ladies of the Sherlollicon 2020 panel. This chapter has many feels- you have been warned. 

* * *

**GHOST STORY**

* * *

Ice clinks into the glass. 

The gin gurgles. One helping, two. A third and there’s no mixer. She’ll have it neat. 

Mary realises, as she looks at the tumbler in her hand, that she’s holding it so hard it might crack. 

Her breath is loud and harsh in the quiet of Mrs. Hudson’s front room. 

With exaggerated care she places the gin bottle onto a side table. Paces. Once across the floor, then twice. Her toes curl in her shoes, her throat is tight. Traffic whispers outside and she hasn’t switched the lights on, the only illumination is the street lamps outside- 

The flat is so, so quiet. 

For a moment, a split second she thinks she might throw the tumbler the wall. Scream. Her chest is tight and her breath won’t slow and she’s pacing, moving so hard that the gin is sloshing slightly, over the floor. Spatters, reflecting the orange street lamps. Spatters, like raindrops, like blood-

“No.” 

She shakes her head. Pushes the thought away. Coils herself tightly into Mrs. Hudson’s favourite chair. 

Above she can hear footsteps, Molly’s and Sherlock’s. He’s pacing, Molly’s following along after him. Again they flare behind her eyes, Sherlock’s gentleness, Molly’s sweet smile and she squeezes her eyes shut. Curls in on herself. Takes a sharp, long swig of her gin. The noise from above has quietened, no more steps and as she thinks that Mary realises that she’s alone, truly alone, for the first time since John died. 

There’s no baby. 

No Sherlock. 

No Molly. 

No one at all. 

She’s alone,  _ alone- _

“You’re not alone-” 

“Piss off.” 

She opens her eyes and of course he’s there, of course he is. John, as she last saw him. John, the front of his stupid, ugly, perfect jumper soaked through with viscera and blood. Blood she caused. Blood he shed for her. 

“Jesus,” he says, “and I thought our boy was a drama queen.” 

Mary blinks. Snorts. “You both are,” she says and at her words John shakes his head. Walks over to the chair opposite and sits down upon it. (The hallucination is so perfect that Mary could swear she hears the chair’s springs squeak.) “What?” She scoffs. “You’re dead so I can’t state the obvious?” But even as she says the words she winces. It’s ridiculous, really, as if anything she says to this figment of her imagination could hurt him, and yet… 

“We’re all drama queens,” John says dryly. “Well, except for Molly.” A snort. “She just has a thing for them.” Mary looks at him sharply; dimly she notices that the blood staining his jumper is still sticky. Shiny with gore. It shouldn’t- On some faraway level she thinks that his wound didn’t look like that, the bullet exited through his back- 

“Exactly,” he says gently. He reaches down, touches the blood with his palm. Removes the hand and peers quizzically down at the red mess on it. “This isn’t what happened, Mary. You know it’s not.” 

“It is.” 

“No,” he says, very gently. “It’s not.” 

Without warning, without reason, tears spring to her eyes and before she knows it she’s sobbing. She sits, rocking herself silently through dry, heaving breaths, spilling gin everywhere, her clothes, the sofa, the cushions.  _ It feels vaguely obscene.  _ The hallucination of John watches her with kind, sorry eyes but he doesn’t go to her. Doesn’t try to comfort her. If he were real Mary knows that he would but he isn’t real, now is he? 

“No, I’m not,” he says aloud. She looks at him. “Come on, sweetheart, that’s not news.” 

Mary takes another sip of her gin. Curls more tightly in on herself. She wipes at her tears with the sleeve of her cardigan. “Then why are you here?” She demands. He looks at her narrowly and she snarls, “Tell me! I’m not playing a guessing game with my bloody subconscious!” 

“Then don’t guess,” he says evenly. “Tell me.” 

Again she flinches. “I- I-“ She can’t bring herself to say the words. 

“You kissed Molly Hooper,” he supplies. “You want to kiss Sherlock Holmes.” 

Said out loud the words twist sharply, making her ache. Guilt slithers through her, nails through her insides because while the words might hurt, the occasion they describe is something she, something she… enjoyed.  _ She enjoyed it. _ She didn’t want to and she didn’t want not to and now everything is a mess and nothing is alright and she, she’s a cheating, faithless- 

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” The words are barked, harsh, and the only time in his life John ever spoke to her like that was when he found out about her former life. 

She looks at him and he shifts in his chair. Tugs self consciously at his bloodied jumper. His jaw is tight and he looks, of all things, guilty. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, and, “don’t talk about yourself that way,” he mutters- 

“Then how should I talk about myself?” Mary demands. She gets to her feet, crosses the room to stop suddenly, helplessly, just a foot or so from her apparition. “How should I talk about myself?” She mutters, some of the wind gone from her sails. “How should I talk about myself, when I want- when I think I might have-“ 

“You’ve fallen in love with Sherlock and Molly,” John says, and when the words are said out loud they don’t sound terrifying or universe-crushing. They sound simple. Matter-of-fact. Obvious. 

_ After all, who wouldn’t love Sherlock and Molly?  _

“But I’m a married woman,” she says. Even as she speaks the words though, she hears the obvious answer. She’s not a married woman, she’s a widow. The man she adored died protecting her and Sherlock and now he’s reduced to a figment of her imagination, a trick of her mind- 

“It’s what you need,” he says softly. Again she looks at him. “I’m what you need right now, and they’re what you need moving on.” 

At his words he winces and for a moment, just a moment, the look on his face is so honest, and real, and hurt, that Mary could fall into the belief in its reality. She could just let go of this stupid world with its stupid death toll and wrap the phantom John in her arms and never let go- 

“But you can’t,” he supplies, softly. Smiling. Mary stares at him and he shakes his head. HIs expression is wry. Sorrowful. He reminds her of the man she first met, the man who’d just lost his best friend. 

“I was a bit of a shit husband, the last few months we were together,” he says quietly. Mary opens her mouth to correct him and then suddenly closes it. Awful as it is to admit, she knows he’s right. “You went through my phone after, you know about Eurus,” he’s saying. “And no, it didn’t go anywhere but we both damn well know it might have. We both damn well know what I would have done, just to feel like I know myself again.” He shakes his head. 

“Always the soldier,” he says quietly. “Willing to accept collateral damage.” 

And he stands. Walks over to her, near enough to touch. Near enough to kiss. For a moment Mary swears she can smell his cologne on the air, his soap and shampoo. The realisation makes her heart ache. But- 

She reaches out and realises he’s just beyond touching distance. Her subconscious has seen to that. The smile on his face is kind. Sad. Again footsteps sound above and he glances upwards. Shakes his head. Rosie gives a cry and then there’s pacing. The indistinct sounds of singing.  _ Molly must have her.  _ The imaginary John presses a kiss to the heel of his hand, brings it to rest on his heart. Without quite thinking about it, Mary does the same. 

“I wanted to watch her grown up,” he says quietly. “I wanted to grow old with- and because- of you. But that’s not how things worked out.” 

Mary feels like her heart is breaking. “No,” she says quietly. “No, it’s not.” 

She squeezes her eyes shut again. Feels the tears burst, awful and necessary, from beneath her lashes. When she opens her eyes, John no longer has that gaping, gory wound in his chest. He’s whole. Smiling. 

“Be happy,” he says quietly. “Take care of yourself, and Rosie, and them, for me.” 

And then he’s gone, and Mary’s alone. Alone with the life she has now. Alone with her heartbreak. Alone with a future, a future she might have traded if it meant her husband’s survival but a future that is hers, nevertheless. 

John died to save her. He died to make sure she could keep on living. 

Alone, teary and shaking, Mary raises her glass to her husband. Drinks her toast to him. 

And then she finally, finally, begins letting go. 


	6. Humans

_ Disclaimer:  _ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. A little sweetness after the last chapter and some mild sexual content: I’m not sure how graphic this story will be yet. Nevertheless, proceed at your own discretion. As always thank you to everyone who has reviewed and is enjoying it. In trying times it really helps, guys. Cheers!

* * *

**HUMANS**

* * *

When she wakes the next morning, the first thing Mary does is open the windows and let some air in. She then strips the sofa cushions, which now smell rather obviously of gin and unwashed, self-pitying human and sticks them in the washing machine. 

She manages to accomplish all this while still half asleep and bereft of coffee. 

_ Were she sufficiently awake, she would probably be impressed.  _

Eventually she ducks into Mrs. Hudson’s shower and does the necessary; by the time she comes out the stink of gin has dissipated somewhat and the only thing she needs to worry about is hanging the cushion covers up to dry. That done, Mary tiptoes up the stairs, trying the door to 221B and discovering it open; with a small sigh she winds her way to Rosie’s room. Checks on her. In the early morning light her daughter looks tiny, fragile, and so much like her father that it breaks Mary’s heart a little. 

She wonders as she stares at her if that reaction will ever change. 

_ Would you want it to?  _ A voice which sounds suspiciously like John’s whispers in her head and she smiles at it. Murmurs a no. 

_ Something tells her that his voice will always be with her, but that doesn’t mean that it has to be in charge.  _ **_It doesn’t mean she has to mourn it._ **

Rosie fusses slightly in her sleep and then settles, leaving Mary to watch her for a few more minutes. To sigh and count her lashes and her tiny little nails, to wonder at the way her breathing works so smoothly for one so small. 

She really is a miracle, Mary thinks, this normal, utterly ordinary child. 

And then, when she’s watched her fill and decided that Rosie is in no immediate need of her mother Mary takes a deep breath. Pads back downstairs to Sherlock and Molly’s room. A moment at the door, ear pressed to it-  _ she does not want to walk in on anything… in progress _ \- and then she slips inside. Takes a breath. She’s not sure what she’s about. (That’s a lie). She’s not sure what she’s hoping. (Also a falsehood). 

For a moment she stares, tiny Molly curled up beneath lanky, lean Sherlock’s chin. In sleep they both look so innocent, so fragile. They both look so easy to break.  _ Just like her Rosie, just like John.  _ Mary’s immediate instinct is to discard, to push them away as civilians and yet they’re not. They’re not. Not to her. Not anymore. These are not civilians. 

This, she thinks, staring at them, this is my unit. My family. 

This is where I belong. 

The thought settles her in the same way which a gun in her hand once had. 

Maybe she makes some sound, maybe it’s merely her breathing but Molly cracks an eye open. Sees her. Mary opens her mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. The other woman merely smiles. Pulls back the covers. Sherlock mutters something grumpily in his sleep at the sudden cold and both women smile. “Move over, darling,” Molly whispers, nudging him, and though he’s frowning, half asleep, he complies. 

Molly curls her legs up and gestures to the space between them in invitation. 

May feels something, something scalding and warm, like happy tears, go off inside her. A bullet of feeling, a knife stroke of it. 

Carefully, carefully, she climbs in between them both. 

Molly watches her do so and then takes her hand. Presses a kiss to it. “Welcome,” she says softly. “We’re both glad you’re here.” 

Mary’s skin burns in the spot where Molly kissed it. 

For a moment Sherlock fusses, grumbles, but then he settles. Nuzzles into her heat. Mary slips one experimental arm around him and he smiles; Molly curls both arms around Mary’s waist and brings her body flush against her own, spooning her. 

“Go t’sleep,” Sherlock murmurs. Another frown. “Don’t kick.” 

“No promises.” 

Molly giggles and Mary leans in closer to him. Twines her fingers through Molly’s, there where they’re resting on her stomach. Mary smiles. Closes her eyes. She feels both Sherlock and Molly’s warmth settle all about her. Hears their breathing, the softness of it. She tells herself that it should be strange, awkward, but it isn’t. It feels…  _ Right _ . 

At the thought tears prick her eyes, different ones from last night. Different ones from the last year. Though he’s till half asleep Sherlock mumbles in his slumber, turns so that now he’s facing her and she can lean into his chest. Tangle her legs with his. 

“S alright,” he murmurs, “Molly and I will make it alright…Promise...” 

Mary listens to her friends’ breathing, to their heartbeats, their reassurances, and finally,  _ finally _ , she lets herself feel content. 

She doesn’t mean to sleep, so of course she does. 

* * *

When she wakes up it’s later, but still Godawfully early. 

She can tell by the fact that Molly has gotten out of bed and is currently pottering about the room, brushing her hair. Wearing nothing but her knickers, socks and a strappy T-shirt. 

She is, Mary is delighted to admit, one good-looking woman. 

Sherlock, being Sherlock, is out to the world (John once told her his best friend had two settings: wired or corpse-like, and Mary has to agree) but Molly is awake. Ready. When she notices Mary looking at her she smiles. Sits back down on the side of the bed and leans over her. 

Slowly, gently, Molly brushes the hair from Mary’s forehead and then presses a kiss to her forehead. “Is that ok?” She asks when she pulls back. 

Mary swallows. “Oh yes.” 

Both women let out a loud, soft sigh as this time their lips meet. 

Molly goes to move away but Mary catches her wrist. Halts her. Eyes on her, fingers trembling, she slowly, slowly brings Molly’s hand to her lips to kiss. Then she kisses her wrist. Her thumb. The heel of her hand. And then her lips again. 

This time their exhalation of breath must be loud enough to wake Sherlock. 

Bleary of eye and tussled of curl he cracks open one eye. Takes in the scene in front of him with a crooked little smile. “Morning,” Mary says faintly. 

“Morning.” And suddenly, without any warning he grins and grabs Molly about her waist. He pulls her in between he and Mary, kissing her solidly and making her laugh. She reciprocates, kissing him longingly and sweetly until Mary is frankly surprised there’s any oxygen left in his lungs- 

When he pulls away he somehow manages to look both smug and utterly besotted. 

“So that’s how you two say hello every morning?” Mary says, trying to keep her voice even. (After all, what is she supposed to say? How is she supposed to navigate this?) And yet… 

She’s thought it before and she’ll think it again: Together Sherlock and Molly are  _ adorable.  _

Sherlock shakes his head though. Grins. “That’s how we wake up when you’re here, Mary,” he says. His grin widens. “After all, feast days should be celebrated, shouldn’t they?” 

Molly snorts with laughter. “And that’s what Mary is, is she?” She inquires. “A feast day?” 

Sherlock nods with mock earnestness. “Absolutely.” Another grin, this time turned to Mary. “You’d be something manly and patriotic, like Saint George’s Day-” 

Mary snorts. “What precisely are you trying to tell me, Sherlock?” She pokes him playfully in the chest. “Are you saying I look like a bloke?-“ 

“God, no.” And before she can think, before she can say anything, he darts in and kisses her. His lips are chapped, firmer than Molly’s but just as warm. His kiss burns in a subtly different, though utterly lovely way. When he pulls back Mary blinks, surprised, fingers going to her lips. It  _ feels different, when it’s Sherlock.  _ Immediately his eyes darken, gaze flitting between her and Molly, clearly asking for reassurance- 

“That was lovely.” Mary says the words, and it’s only as she does that she realises they need to be said. Strange how kissing Molly has seemed so natural, but kissing Sherlock seems to require prep. And yet- 

“Would you do that again?” She asks and at that he smiles. Nods. It’s almost shy. Again his eyes flick to Molly but it’s not questioning, it’s pleased. Gentle. It seems to say,  _ yes, darling, I see you were right.  _

The thought makes Mary’s stomach flip. 

Slowly this time, carefully, Sherlock reaches over and kisses her. It’s softer, gentler, and when he pulls back he looks straight into her eyes. Leans his forehead on hers. 

Mary feels it to the tips of her toes. 

She takes a dee breath, lets out a jubilant, happy little laugh and then Molly’s kissing her, and Sherlock’s kissing her, and she’s kissing the both of them… 

They fall back into the bed, a tangle of arms and legs and laughter, and things... _progress_ from there. 


End file.
